


Goodbye John

by AlessNox



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, Hiking, PTSD, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Scotland, Therapy, Umbrella
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-22 11:58:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9606662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlessNox/pseuds/AlessNox
Summary: What is causing Sherlock problems in his new life? John.





	1. Chapter 1

"So, tell me about Victor Trevor," Ella says sitting across from Sherlock in her new office with the stained glass windows.

"Not much to tell. He was a boy. I was a boy. He was my best friend, and we played pirates."

"And you didn't remember him before last month."

"No. I have a sister in prison. Apparently, I repressed the memory of her and him as well. That's not completely true. I remembered his death a bit. I thought that my dog had died."

"Trauma can distort memories. But what we need to do now is to understand how you are going to integrate these new memories back into your life. How will they change who you are?"

"I don't want to change who I am."

"But you already have changed. When you came before, you only wanted to talk about your friend, John Watson. Could it be that your need to save your friend has its origin in your inability to save Victor Trevor?"

Sherlock looks up, face pained. "I...I don't know. Maybe."

"You came to me wanting me to help your friend because he wouldn't come to his session on his own. You wanted to find a way to help him. Now you're beginning to open up about your own problems. You're taking the first step to regaining your own mental balance. This is a good thing."

"Is it? I thought that it was good to help others."

"Not at the expense of your own wellbeing. It's like...imagine that you're on a plane and it's going to crash."

"Oh God, not this analogy again."

"You put the mask over your own mouth before you put it over your child's, otherwise you may pass out, and you both could die. Do you see? You can't hope to help John Watson navigate his grief until you deal with your own."

"I see."

"I think that we've made good progress today. So, same time next week?"

"Yes, yes of course. Thank you."

"No need to thank me, Sherlock. You did all of the work today. Take care."

"Goodbye, Ella."

.

Sherlock leaves the building, and walks down the sidewalk, only to notice a black car tailing him. He rolls his eyes and cries to the closed window. "Good God, Mycroft, I'm not a child! Go take care of your other sibling, why don't you, or is their a fourth sister I don't know about? The South wind perhaps who blows gentle raspberries toward you. Go away!"

The door opens. "I just thought that I would give you a ride back to the flat. No need to be churlish, brother mine. Get in, or I'll tell Mummy that you actually drugged her on purpose Christmas day, and not accidentally as I'd claimed."

Sherlock, looks down at his brother, and then climbs into the car. "I can't believe they bought the story that I accidentally spilled my sleeping pills into the pot."

"I have had decades of explaining away your defects. I've got quite good at it. Now, Sherlock, how did your session go?"

"Why should I tell you? You're going to get the annotated notes by this evening."

"I'm asking you because I want to know how you feel, brother."

"Why the sudden concern? You haven't minded before."

"I have minded, I have simply been… distracted, and now that Eurus is feeling better, thank you for that by the way. Eurus quite likes you, you know."

"I know. It must have been difficult for her having only you around to talk to."

"Yes, well, now that she's better, I can spend more attention on you."

"Oh no, I've never felt a stronger desire to reenter the murder maze than now."

"You had the chance to kill me once, and you passed it up. Thank you for that, little brother. I didn't expect it."

"It was just that I was tired of her games. If we ever find ourselves in one again, don't expect such a happy result."

"We won't find ourselves in one again. I promise you that."

"So is that all you came to talk to me about?"

"No. I came to ask about..."

"Come on Mycroft, spit it out. Since when are you hesitant about … well, basically anything, except clowns."

"That was a dirty trick. No one was supposed to know…."

"About your fear of clowns. I think I've found my costume for every fancy dress ball from now to forever."

"Sherlock, this is serious. It has to do with … Dr. Watson. Do you mean to go through with your plan to make Rosie Watson your heir?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I thought, you might one day wish to have your own family."

"Rosie and John are my family."

"Are you sure? Have you talked to Dr. Watson about it?"

"John, his name is John. I would think that after all these years you would have learned it."

"Says the man who can't remember the name of the police inspector he has worked with for ten years. I think that you should talk to him before making plans for his daughter."

"What plans. It's just a trust fund. She won't even know that it's there."

"But her father should."

"Fine. I'll talk to him. But still, you've called him John before. Why the 'Dr Watson' all of a sudden. Why does he suddenly merit the title."

"I call him that to prevent myself from calling him other names that might be more… unsavory."

"Such as what? What can you possibly have against John?"

"Other than the fact that he beat you so hard that you had to be hospitalized, and he left you in the hands of a serial killer? Other than that, you mean? Quite a bit, actually."

"That was ages ago, and it wasn't like _you_ cared when I was hurt before. That Serbian had a pipe!"

"Sherlock..."

"Okay, okay, I'll talk to him. Pull over now. We're almost there, and I want to pick up a pack of cigarettes before we get to the flat."

Mycroft motions to the driver to pull over, then he turns back to Sherlock. "I thought you'd given them up."

"I had, but if I'm giving up cocaine again, I'm going to need some kind of vice to take its place. We can't all binge on cookie dough icecream like you do."

"It was only the one package!"

"Good afternoon, Mycroft." Sherlock says slipping out of the car.

* * *

"And how did he respond after you told him about your plans to make his daughter your heir?" Ella asks.

"He got angry. He was incensed! He said that I had no right to make plans about his daughter without his say so."

"And how did this make you feel?"

"How did this make me feel? Must you follow the therapist script so closely? If you must know I was confused. Certainly this is a good thing, isn't it? I wasn't suggesting taking custody of his daughter, only to give her my money after I died. I don't know what there is to object to."

"What did he say?"

"He went on to talk about people I knew, Irene, Molly. He suggested that I might wish to procreate with one of them and save my money for my own offspring."

"So, do you want to… procreate?"

"Gods no! Did I tell you about my sister who is insane? And if you ever met my brother, then you'd realize that some genes are best left unspread."

"And did you tell this to John?"

"I didn't have a chance. He took his daughter and ran off in a huff when I suggested it. Annoying, because it means that my brother was right. He's going to be so smug after this."

"And how about the drugs. Have you been managing them alright?"

"I'm up to two packs a day on the cigarettes. But no, I haven't returned to the drugs. It was all for a case anyway, and after my sister's home visit while I was high as a kite, I'm sort of craving reality now. The things that I've been experiencing for the last six months would make anyone swear off drugs for a lifetime."

"Well, we can address the issue of the smoking at a later time. How are your other relationships with people getting along?"

"Which people?"

"The people you interact with from day to day."

"My friends, you mean? We're getting along fine. Why are you smiling?"

"You said _'my friends'_. When you first came here, you said that you only had one friend. Now you have begun to acknowledge others. This is progress."

"Is it? It doesn't seem like anything has changed."

Ella smiles. "Believe me, it has changed, Sherlock."

"Oh, and there is something that I need advice on. I happened to tell someone that 'I loved them' sort of on a bet, and she said it back. Now I'm afraid to talk to her, and I need to go down to the morgue to look at some bodies so I was wondering..."

* * *

"Why Sherlock, you don't seem very happy today. What happened?"

"Why should I seem happy? What is the purpose of it, the utility?"

"Did John say something?"

"Why would you assume that John said something? My life doesn't revolve around him you know. I do have other interests."

"Yes, but... you did request an earlier session than we had scheduled, and it is understanding John and your relationship with him that brought you to me in the first place."

"Why do you think that?"

Ella folded her hands. "You could have gone to any number of therapists, and yet you chose me. Even though you claimed that my education was substandard and my conclusions largely incorrect. I can only interpret this to mean that you picked me not because you wanted me as your therapist, but because I have experience with talking to John. I've noticed the way you comment on his blog, and..."

"You read John's blog?"

"I'm the one who told him to start one."

"Oh right. Good. Thank you, by the way. I like his blog. An amazing insight into John's thought processes."

"And that's what you want, insight into how John thinks?"

"I suppose so. He's not like other people is he?"

"Why would you say that?"

"Because he… he's so stubborn. He still won't take my trust fund money. I think that he must still blame me for Mary, even though he says he doesn't."

"Mary? You mean his dead wife?"

"Yes, she was shot while trying to save me. She shouldn't have bothered. Things would have been better if she hadn't."

"Better? If you had died?"

"I guess… I don't know. It's so confusing. It's as if...there is nothing that I can do to please him. He hangs on to everything bad I've ever done. It must be those 'trust issues' that you spoke of. Funny that he can't forgive me when he forgave his wife who lied to him from the day he met her."

"Lied?"

"Oh, that's another story. No time for that. I do pay you by the hour."

"Yes, and you still haven't clearly told me what's concerning you."

"It's John. He doesn't blog. He doesn't complement me like he used to. He doesn't stay over for Chinese. It's as if he's drawn a line in the sand that he won't cross."

"And this bothers you?"

"Yes!"

"Why?"

"Because he's supposed to be my best friend, and I'm beginning to think that he is, only because I don't have any other ones."

"Ah, but you know that's not true. You told me yourself you have friends."

"Yes, but they're not John."

"And you need his approval."

"Yes!"

"Why?"

"I don't know. I just do."

"Do you think that this is something that we should explore in therapy, your need for someone else's approval."

"What would be the point? It's never going to change."

"It can if you want it to."

"What do you mean?"

"An overwhelming need for someone else's approval. It is a common reason for people to seek therapy. Usually it is a father or a mother, but given your unique circumstances it could be the person who you think humanized you. In a way, you felt that he made you. Made the person that you've become."

"No one made me, I made me."

"Now that is absolutely not true. You have these new memories of childhood trauma with your sister, and several recent near-death experiences. None of them was your fault, and yet you feel responsible for them. Have you never thought what your life would have been like if these things had never happened to you ?"

"I suppose. I suppose that without them my life would have been... dull."

"So then these things, and the people who caused these things to happen to you. They helped make you. But you have a choice. You can decide whether these things control your future actions. You can choose whether to let it guide your future life."

"But… John?"

"You have a choice, Sherlock. You can choose to walk on eggshells, following where he leads, and letting his moods rule your life, or you can find your own path without him."

"No."

"No?"

"That is… I suppose I could try… see how that works. See if it makes things better."

"Well, at least that's a place to start."


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade enters the flat to find that Sherlock's kitchen is full of chemistry equipment.

"Sherlock, is this what I think it is? Will I need to have another drugs search?"

"Search? Hardly. You can clearly see that this flask contains..."

Lestrade raises his hands. "Don't tell me! I don't want to know."

"But I thought... you asked..."

"Just have it cleaned out by the next time I come over, yeah? I'm not here on business."

"So, how is my brother?"

"How did you know I was doing a favor for your brother?"

"A favor?"

"I dropped by to pick up his umbrella."

"His umbrella? It's in that trash bin. Why on Earth are you doing favors for my brother of all people?"

"You were the one who asked me to take care of him after that unfortunate family accident."

"Accident? Is that what we call murder these days?"

"It is when the records are hushed up. You should know all about that by now, Sherlock."

"Yes, Yes, point taken. You know entirely too many of my secrets these days?"

"You're telling me, mate. With all the secrets your family has had me help cover up, I now have a security clearance higher than the chief superintendent."

"I should hope so. His lover is a Danish spy. Speaking of which, I see you've finally broken up with that woman you were seeing."

"Yep."

"Why did you call it off? Was it the illegitimate children, or the lover from Bogota?"

"Neither. I found out that the woman I was seeing was actually your sister in disguise."

"What?!" Sherlock says rising to his feet.

"Just kidding." Greg says smiling as he puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "It was the lover. She chucked me when he came by and proposed. I felt like a bit of a third wheel on that date, I tell ya. Didn't even get to the dessert course."

"Don't scare me like that, Greg," Sherlock says with his hand on his heart.

Lestrade grins widely.

"And what's with that smile?"

"You remember my name now. I still get a kick out of it."

"My therapist says that my inability to remember it may have been a consequence of my constant memory suppression. She threatens that I might remember a whole host of irritatingly trivial things from now on."

"So there was a reason for it? You weren't just taking the piss."

"Possibly, well..sometimes I might have been."

"Yeah, I always knew you were a wanker. So, how's John and that lovely child of his?"

"I wouldn't know. They haven't been over for a week."

"Is that the reason for…." Lestrade waves a hand at the chemistry equipment.

"Oh heaven's no. I have no plans to indulge. I was just checking Wiggin's formula to make sure that it wasn't fatal. Can't have him vending poison on the street. He would lose his customers."

"Sherlock! For God's sake, don't tell me. I can't have heard any of this. I'll just get the umbrella and go. My! this umbrella is heavy! What's in it? A steel pipe?"

"Something like that." Sherlock smiles fondly, and says, "He's courting you."

"What?"

"That's why he asked you to get the umbrella. He thought it would impress you."

"Actually, Sherlock. He sent me to check up on you. Are you sure that you're all right?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock says before turning a sly smile on Lestrade. "Mycroft likes vintage movies, and overpriced French wines. He's very sensitive about his weight. You should make him one of those fruit shakes that you made when you were slimming down to impress that ballroom dance instructor. He would like those. He's fond of bananas."

"It's nothing like..."

"He doesn't have any friends. He's had too many responsibilities, too many secrets to even consider them. I think that he's finally ready to try it out now. Be kind to him. Just don't tell him I said that."

"Don't tell him? I swear, if you make me learn any more secrets, I may start forgetting _your_ name."

Lestrade heads for the door, umbrella in hand.

"Goodnight Gilbert!" Sherlock calls.

"Goodnight Sheldon." Lestrade replies as he scampers down the stairwell.

* * *

"And after you threatened Mr. Smith with the scalpel, then what happened?"

"John disarmed me."

"You said that you were hospitalized."

"Yes, John hit me, a bit."

"Hit you hard enough to put you in the hospital?"

"Well, he did kick me as well. But that was alright. I deserved it."

"What makes you say that?"

"Mary died while trying to save me, so her death was really my fault."

"Mary saved you?"

"Yes, she saved my life."

"And that's why you think that you deserve a beating?"

"I took Mary away from him even though I promised that I would protect her. I promised to protect all three of them."

Ella leaned forward in her chair. "I don't think I quite understand this. Are you saying that you deserved to be beaten because you said that you would protect Mary, but she instead gave her life to protect you?"

"Yes, and I can never repay her. I don't understand why she did it."

"You don't understand why someone would try to save your life?"

"Exactly. I am not worth saving. I am an unpleasant, unfeeling, callous, sociopath. No one should risk their life for me."

Ella leans back in her chair and sighs heavily.

"It would have been better if I had died then, but Mary gave her life to save mine, and that conferred a value on it. I can't die now. I've got to find a way to repay the debt. Don't you see? That's why I need to help John. Mary told me to go to Hell, and I've been there. I went there to save John."

"Mary saved your life, and then told you to go to Hell?"

"Yes...I mean no. That is, she told me in a message that if I went to Hell, John would save me and… what is it? You've stopped taking notes. What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry Sherlock, I just realized that I may need to clear my calendar. You are going to need a good deal more sessions."

"Why?"

"I think that I'm going to have to hear the story from the beginning."

"From the beginning of what?"

"Who told you that you were a sociopath?"

"Everyone! Although they mostly call me a psychopath. I tell them the terminology is outdated but they never seem to understand that..."

"You're not a sociopath."

"Oh, do you still use the term psychopath after all?"

"I think that the term you are looking for is 'antisocial personality disorder'. A disorder where a person manipulates, hurts, and exploits others for their own gain and enjoyment. I believe many of the people you told me about would fall into those categories."

"I agree."

"But you do not."

"What?"

"You are _not_ a sociopath."

"Really? Are you sure?"

"I'm absolutely positive."

Sherlock tilts his head to the side. "Why?"

"Antisocial personality disorder, or 'sociopathy' as you wish to describe it, is a disorder where a person is self-centered and does not care for the feelings of others. Persons with this disorder are deceitful and reckless. They will manipulate people for their own gain, and they often resort to criminal behavior."

"Exactly, all things that I have been known to do."

"When you first came to me, you did so for the express purpose of finding a way to help John Watson deal with his grief. You were willing to put yourself through hell because his deceased wife told you to. The fact that you have repeatedly demonstrated a desire to protect others, not only physically but emotionally reveals that you are an empathetic and highly compassionate man. I don't know who told you that you were a sociopath, but they were greatly mistaken. You are anything but that."

Sherlock inhales and blinks a few times before opening his eyes. Then he scowls at her. "What would a second-rate therapist know about it?"

"Even a second rate therapist can tell that a man who will let his friend beat him near to death without fighting back simply so he can release his pent up anger, and still name that person's daughter as his heir in his will, that person is not a sociopath."

Sherlock blinks again and then turns toward the window so that Ella can not see the tear that has just fallen from his eye.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR's NOTE: Thanks to byjovewhataspend for her fabulous meta about John's PTSD for inspiration for this chapter.

"It's getting worse."

"What's getting worse?" Ella asks Sherlock.

"John. He's given Rosie back to his friends to mind."

"I thought that we were here to talk about you. How you are going to get over your dependence on John Watson's approval."

"I'll do that, but you have to tell me how to save John."

"Why is that?"

"Because you told me that I wasn't a sociopath."

"Sherlock, I thought that we agreed that we would work on your problems first."

"John _is_ my problem."

"And why is that?"

"Because I love him, and he has no one else. Ella? You've gone a bit still. What's wrong?"

"Love. This is the first time I've heard either of you use that word in reference to your relationship."

"I don't suppose that John would have used the word. He is very… let us say that he is concerned that people not question his sexual orientation. Hasn't he ever said the word before? Has he told you that he loves Mary?"

"I can not disclose my confidential conversations with another patient."

"John Watson is no longer your patient. I shouldn't wonder after you gave him that bullshit about having PTSD."

"Sherlock, we're here to talk about you. I am sure that Dr. Watson's new therapist can explore…."

"He doesn't have a therapist," Sherlock says.

"He does have a therapist. I sent his medical files over to her earlier this year."

"That wasn't a therapist. My sister sent for those files. She _is_ a sociopath. She's been posing as John's therapist for the last few months."

"What did you say?" Ella said rising to her feet.

"What is it?"

"Are you saying that someone, your sister, impersonated John Watson's therapist, and was sent confidential files under false circumstances?"

"Oh, don't worry about it. My brother will make sure that they don't blame you for this. You've been very ethical, ignoring the demands of my brother's agents when they asked for John's confidential files before. They ultimately had to resort to stealing copies of your notes."

"What! Your _brother_ stole my notes about John Watson too?"

"Don't worry. He's with the government. Besides he did it ages ago. All that garbage about _'trust issues'_ and PTSD. I cured him of his limp, you know. He just needed a bit of excitement. A few gunfights, and jumping from rooftops cured him right away. You can probably sit down now."

"You have no understanding of how serious this is, do you?"

"How serious what is?"

"John Watson's situation. You have no idea of the danger that reading his confidential files will have to John Watson's mental health."

"My sister is back in containment. She can't get to him again."

"But the damage has already been done, and you say that he hasn't been to a therapist since?"

"Ella, what's wrong?"

Ella covers her eyes for a moment and then looks at her chair, but does not sit down.

"I've obviously upset you," Sherlock says leaning forward in his chair. He looks at her right fist which she has clenched.

"I don't know who your family thinks they are, but if my files were stolen, and John knows about it, you may well have set back all of the progress he's gained since he got back from Afghanistan. For a soldier with PTSD and trust issues to find out that the people whom he trusted have been manipulating him...that his confidence has been betrayed..."

"But he doesn't really have PTSD."

"Sherlock Holmes! You are not a therapist. You hold no degrees in this field, and you obviously have no idea what you are talking about! John Watson has always showed signs of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He is hyper-vigilant. Wary, even in situations where there is no threat. He is secretive, even when there is no need to be so. When faced with an emotional outburst of another, he gets still, planning how to take down the assailant or get to safety. You might say that this is normal for a doctor, but I've seen him do this around patients who were simply crying. His response is out of proportion to the threat at hand. And now you tell me that he has access to guns? Compound this with the increased responsibility of raising a child alone, and the fact that his wife was brutally murdered, and he may well be on the cusp of a nervous breakdown! And now you tell me that he not only is NOT seeing a therapist, but that his last therapist was someone pretending to help him in order to get access to his private thoughts. This is not only disastrous, this is dangerous!"

Sherlock rises to his feet, reaching out toward Ella. "John is fine. I saw him this morning, and he didn't seem to be showing any signs of stress that I could see. He seemed calm."

"Sherlock, calm is exactly what we don't want to see. Calm is how a man gets when he thinks he knows the solution to his problems."

Sherlock breathed in sharply and took a step back. "Do you think that John is planning suicide?"  
"Frankly, you must have been blind not to see the distress that he's obviously in...but… Oh! You did see it. That's why you kept turning each of our sessions into a discussion about John."

"Is John in danger? Do you think that he is suicidal?"

"Or homicidal. I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, but I think that under the circumstances it is best if we end our session for the day."

"Wait!" Sherlock says, "Please tell me what's wrong with John."

"I'm sorry, but I can't discuss a patient's…."

"He's not your patient now! I am, and you only became concerned because of the information that you've gained from my sessions; so tell me now what you think is wrong with John, or God help me, I will get my brother to bring his men in here and take ever document you have!"

"You can't do that. The law…."

"Try me," Sherlock says glaring down at the woman. She looks up at him, and backs away. Then she takes a breath and motions to his chair.

"Shall we sit?" She lowers herself into her chair. Sherlock sits a moment later. They sit for several minutes in silence before Ella decides to speak.

"What I am doing, discussing John Watson's case with you, is a bending of my medical ethics. I may very well lose my license for this, but if what you say is true, the situation is serious and so some risks should be taken."

Sherlock sits forward. "Please stop dithering and tell me what's wrong."

"You understand that even after I tell you this, you will still need to return to face your own psychological issues which are also serious and unresolved."

"Dear God, get on with it. I promise to keep coming as long as you like. I'll keep coming till doomsday if you will only tell me what has frightened you about John!"

"Okay, but I only say this because I think that you may be the only one capable of reaching him."

"Ella, please!"

"Dr. John Watson does indeed have PTSD. He has had it from the moment that he came back to London from Afghanistan. When I first saw him, he was on the watch list as a person likely to take his own life. He has no close bonds with his family. He has no friends that he would care to depend on for physical or emotional support. He put all of his energy into his identity as a soldier and a doctor, and when he lost that, he didn't feel any connection with the world around him. Writing the blog was meant to give him an outlet for his emotions, but he didn't really start to reveal those emotions until he met you. Your relationship gave him a purpose again. He gained confidence, and sought and got another job as a doctor. When you did that publicity stunt and died."

"It wasn't a publicity stunt."

"Whatever it was, when you left, John lost his purpose in life. He came back to therapy, but he had become almost as closed-mouthed about his feelings as he was in the beginning. I tried several times to get him to reveal his relationship with you, but he refused. In time, he was able to find a way to cope, even though he doubted himself greatly. He found someone that he could confide it. Got married, and stopped coming to therapy sessions."

"Mary." Sherlock leaned forward and covered his mouth with his hands muttering, "Oh, Mary, what have you done?"

"After his wife's death, he called the office to get his files transferred to another therapist. It isn't uncommon that after a large change like that, a person will want to avoid the people who remind him of the trauma he has had in the past. It's a normal emotion, so I sent his files not knowing that the person who intercepted them was not a doctor.

"But if what you say is true. If John Watson knows that people have been using things that he has said in confidence in his therapy sessions against him, then he will be unlikely to trust the process ever again. And yet, he is in very serious need of therapy right now. You've told me yourself, he lashed out at you violently, harming you so badly that you needed to be hospitalized. He has sent his daughter away, likely because he doesn't feel that she is safe around him. He is losing his control. He may well be losing his sanity. I doubt that I need to tell you how many crimes and attacks on the public were instigated by veterans with deep emotional issues who felt that deadly force was the best way to alleviate their own demons. I must tell you, Sherlock, that I would class John Watson as someone very likely to become one of them. He has suffered trauma after trauma in an environment that is supposed to be safe. One of his greatest fears is betrayal, and yet his trust has been betrayed."

"You have no idea how much."

"John Watson must feel like a pawn in a game of chess that someone else is playing. He is not the kind of person who would be comfortable being played. He may very well decide that the best way to regain his own efficacy is to terminate those whom he feels are controlling him."

"Oh no, how did I miss this? Even after I heard him talking to Mary's ghost?"

"Are you saying that he's been seeing hallucinations?"

Sherlock looks up, lifting his face out of his hands. "Yes, probably."

"Auditory and visual?"

"I think so."

"Then this is worse than I thought."

"Tell me."

"John is in danger of completely disconnecting with the world around him. He needs to trust someone. He needs to develop a support system. He needs an environment that is safe and doesn't trigger him. He absolutely does NOT need more excitement. Do you still have that spare room in your flat?"

"Yes, but it still needs a bit of work after the bomb damaged the floor."

"Bomb?!"

"Yes, my sister sent a drone that blew up my flat. I did tell you that she was a sociopath, didn't I? Or should I call her antisocial?"

"He always considered your Baker Street flat his home. It must have been greatly traumatic for him to see that home destroyed. As if he's been thrown back into the war, but the surroundings are places that he has learned to trust. This is the worst possible thing that could have happened. No wonder he lashed out against you."

"But, what can I do? How can I reach him?"

"I don't know if you can. Honestly, after all that's happened, I'm not sure that anyone can reach him. John Watson may very well be lost."


	4. Chapter 4

John's flat is empty when Sherlock Holmes breaks into it. The only light on is a lamp beside the phone suggesting that it had just started to get dark when John had left. The sun set thirty minutes ago, so it's not too much of a head start.

Sherlock crouches down beside the table and stares at the phone, unused. No pen. no new note on the pad. The address book, recently opened and then shut. The pages are misaligned slightly showing which page was last open before the book had been hastily closed. Sherlock retrieves a pencil from his pocket and inserts it into the gap carefully, flipping the book open to see what page John had been looking at. His chin drops when he sees that the address listed is for the home of Mycroft Holmes.

" _John Watson is a danger to himself and others,"_ Ella had said.

"Could it be? Would he try to harm Mycroft?"

" _John Watson must feel like a pawn in a game of chess that someone else is playing. He is not the kind of person who would be comfortable being played."_

"Being played… we've all been played these last few months, but if anyone looks like a chessmaster, it would be Mycroft."

Sherlock rushes into the bedroom and opens the closet door, looking down into John's green army bag. He pulls open the cinch and looks down into the top of the bag to see the impression of a gun. The _impression_ of a gun. That means that John has taken the gun and the ammunition with him.

Sherlock pulls out his phone and calls Lestrade. "Greg!"

"Sherlock! Hey, I can't get over the fact that you can remember my name now. Great! So what do you want?"

"Greg, listen!"

"Sherlock. Are you okay? You aren't being attacked again, are you?"

"No, but you might be. Is Mycroft with you?"

There's a low scoffing sound in the background.

"So he _is_ there. Tell him that this is serious. Tell him… Tell him Redbeard. Redbeard. He'll understand."

The sound mutes as Lestrade puts his hand over the microphone. A few seconds later his voice comes back sharper and more serious. "All right, Sherlock. We're listening."

"It's John. Are you at Mycroft's house now?"

"Yeah!"

"John's on his way, and he has his gun."

* * *

Sherlock pushes through Mycroft's front door without bothering to close it behind him. He finds them standing together behind Mycroft's huge pretentious leather couch. Good choice as the complex pins and folds on the leather surface probably are as tough as steel.

"Do you have your gun?" he asks Lestrade.

"Why would I bring my gun here?"

"What is this about, Sherlock?" Mycroft demands as he takes apart the handle of his umbrella and hands it over to Lestrade. Lestrade stares at it narrowing his eyes.

"Is this a gun?" he asks.

"John may not be in his right mind. I have reason to believe he may have come to kill you."

"Hold on, Sherlock. Why would you even think...?"

"Why else would he bring his gun here? Were you near any windows? He's a crack shot even with a hand gun."

"We were in the theatre. We just came out when you called. I would have liked to have seen the conclusion. Are you sure about this Sherlock?"

"I won't be sure until I find him. I need to locate him now."

"Then, you are in luck," Mycroft says stiffening, "because he's here."

Sherlock whips around to see a figure emerging from the shadows of the hallway. The light illuminates half his face making it look strange and sinister as he steps forward. He says "The door was open, so I just let myself in."

Sherlock steps in front of Mycroft and holds out his palms. Lestrade jumps and then pulls up the small gun, looking more at Sherlock than John as he gestures it toward the blond man.

"What's going on?" John says, and then his eyes widen and he reaches into the back of his waistband to pull out his gun.

"No, no, wait!" Sherlock says gesturing with his hands as John swivels and lowers himself to a crouch, gun aimed into the shadows behind him. For long moments they sit there in silence. Then John slowly comes to a realization. He lowers his gun and turns back toward the three of them. He looks at Lestrade, gun pointed toward him. Then at Mycroft's harsh face. Then at Sherlock. He rises to his feet.

"It's me, you're pointing the gun at me."

"John, this isn't the answer."

"What are you talking about? Do you think that I…?" He looks at the three men, who are looking back at him with wary eyes. John's brow fills with folds and he looks for a moment as if he might cry. You think I came to shoot someone. You think I came to hurt you?" He lowers his gun and drops it on the floor. John clenches his left hand and then opens it. "You thought, after all we've been through that I would suddenly decide to kill one of you? Mycroft, we were together in that prison. We went through the crucible together. I thought that would be enough to prove who I really am. And Greg, you've known me for years. We go for pints together. Why would you think that I would ever...? And Sherlock…."

John stares straight into Sherlock's eyes. His face looks sad, sadder than Sherlock has ever seen it. "I would think that you would know me after all this time. But I guess not. I suppose you noticed the symptoms, depression, sleeplessness, lack of appetite, and you thought that meant I was going to become crazed and start shooting people. You must have broken into my flat again and noticed that I took my gun. I suppose it's logical, textbook even. _Crazed veteran kills nine, film at eleven."_ He smirks. _  
_

"If you must know, I took it because of Rosie. I don't want to have a gun in the house where she might find it. I thought of going to you, Greg, but the gun is illegal. You might not be able to give it back if I needed it, so I came to Mycroft. I guess… I never thought that you would think so little of me. To think that I wouldn't get help if I felt myself slipping toward those kinds of thoughts. Didn't you think that as a doctor, I would know the warning signs? That I wouldn't let it go that far? Didn't any of you trust me?"

Mycroft touches Lestrade's sleeve, and Greg lowers the gun. John looks down at his feet clenching his hand again before looking up with eyes that could bore through glass. "Well, I know what you all think of me now. You told me once, didn't you Sherlock? That paper you wrote me on my birthday about how no one likes me?" he chuckles. "I thought it was a joke, but I really should have known better. Take the gun. Do whatever you want with it. Here, take the spare rounds too. I don't need them." He tosses the bullets down on the floor next to the gun.

"Well, if you don't mind now, I'll be on my way. Goodnight Mycroft, Greg. Goodbye Sherlock."

John turns and walks out of the room, soldier stiff, with only the barest trace of a limp. Greg and Mycroft look at each other and Greg sighs slumping down with relief at the release of tension. Mycroft stares at Sherlock who looks shocked, crestfallen.

"Well, that went well."

"Shut up, Mycoft!" Sherlock says before rushing out after John. He runs out onto the lawn and searches, but John is nowhere to be found.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock turns his head at the sound of the downstairs door opening only to roll it back to face the inside of the couch when he hears the heavy tread on the stairs.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"And a good afternoon to you as well, brother dear. Busy sulking I see."

"Yes, I am busy, so sod off and let me continue, why don't you."

Mycroft pokes at a pile of books near the doorway with his umbrella. "This place is starting to look like its old bohemian self." He hears a squeak and lifts his foot. "With some new additions, I see. How is John?"

"Gone," Sherlock says in a voice that tries to be petulant but ends up cracking instead. "I went to his flat but he had already left. His work claims that he took a leave of absence. What they didn't say, but was obvious from the moment that I walked in, was that it might be permanent."

"And Rosie?"

"Still with the Leeds. He told them that he needed a break to get his head together, and that he would send for Rosie when he had found a place for them."

"So, you think he plans to leave London?"

"That would be the logical conclusion."

"And what are you doing about it?"

"I tried tracing him by his credit card, but he's been using cash. No flights, so I'm supposing his travel is domestic. No one in the homeless network has caught sight of him. He must have taken lessons from Mary because he left London without a trace."

"And his phone?"

"He left it behind. He must have guessed that I was tracking it. He gave the Leeds another number to contact him by. It's an answering service. The company is in Holland. I was thinking of catching a flight to search their offices, but I'm still hoping for a lead."

"And when you find him? What then?"

"I don't know. Apologize, I guess."

"You, apologize?"

"I've been doing a lot of that lately."

"You've changed, little brother. You used to deny your need for human contact, but now you admit it. Your search for John, your keeping up with Rosie, you've even spent time with Miss Hooper, Mrs Hudson and...Inspector Lestrade."

"Greg, you mean. You know you wanted to say his first name. I'd say that you also have started to admit your need for human contact."

"Well, our sister has given us a chilling example of what isolation can do to one. I thought that perhaps it was worth rethinking one of my maxims."

"Rethinking?" Sherlock turns to look at Mycroft who has taken a seat in John's chair. "What maxim is that?"

"I'm beginning to think that their might be a … benefit to caring for another person."

Sherlock sits up. "You're serious?"

"It wasn't until recently that I began to realize how much my example has affected you. You didn't know of my… responsibility to your sister, so you never understood why I am the way I am. I find that I might have inadvertently discouraged your connections with others in order to make things easier for me."

"Why, Mycroft..." Sherlock leans forward. "Have you been seeing a therapist too?"

"Heavens no!" he says rolling his eyes. "But I have been receiving a constant stream of lectures from Mummy about the proper duty of a brother to his siblings."

"Dear God!"

"Indeed!"

"So, is this one of Mummy's mandated visits?"

"No. In fact it is a chance to get away. They're staying over at my house."

"How horrible!"

"Just be glad that your flat recently exploded, otherwise they'd be staying in _your_ guest room."

"Over my dead body."

"As this isn't the first time that your flat has suffered from an explosion, I've convinced them living with you is too dangerous in their time of life. I mean, not all on us can leap out of a first floor window and survive unscathed."

"If it wasn't for that laundry truck, I think things would have gone much worse for us. What about you? You fell down the stairs."

"Rolled, I rolled down the stairs. It distributes the mass."

"Don't think I've missed the stiff way you hold your shoulder."

"I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine. It's you I'm concerned about."

Sherlock slouches back on the couch. "Well, there's no need for you to come over for that. I assume your concern no matter what I do, and I don't need your pity."

"Pity? I'm hardly here for that."

"Then, brother mine, why are you here?"

"For this." Mycroft rises artfully to his feet and passes an envelope to Sherlock who frowns.

"I don't want a case now, Mycroft."

"You'll want this one."

Sherlock opens the envelope to find a pamphlet for hiking tours of Scotland and a train ticket followed by a surveillance account of the movements of one John Hamish Watson.

"You don't think after what happened with Eurus that I would let John Watson go unobserved. That man is a magnet for trouble. I had hardly any work at all to get his surveillance status upgraded to grade four, active."

Sherlock jumps to his feet. "Mycroft…I don't know what to say."

"A rare occurrence indeed."

"I'll be off then. Lock up, won't you. And if you ever need a place to hide from Mummy, Greg has a very comfortable couch."

"I know," Mycroft says. Sherlock stops in the motion of putting on his coat to stare at his brother who is worrying the toy duck with the tip of his umbrella. "Well, I'll be off."

"Bring home the good doctor, won't you?"

"If I can find him."

"I have no doubt."

A scurry of keys thrown into pockets and tying of scarves, and then Sherlock storms down the stairs. Mycroft turns away from the door then, and sits back down in John's chair.

"Good Luck, little brother," he says to the empty flat before sitting back in the chair and crossing his legs.


	6. Chapter 6

It is late afternoon of his second day in Scotland when he catches up to John on a trail in the Scottish highlands. He's seen no other soul for well over an hour, and he's beginning to wonder if the young lady at the gift shop was thinking of a different blond older man with a compact body and a cute face when she'd sold him that chunk of tablet.

He first glimpses him cresting a hill far ahead of him. He walks with a brisk, steady, pace that he must have learned in the army, a pace that Sherlock has often seen him use on the streets of London. Sherlock increases his pace, but he has difficulty catching up despite his longer legs. He loses sight of him, only to regain it as he climbs to the top of a grassy knoll to find John looking out over the hills under a stunning sky. His hands are on his hips, and he is breathing deeply. He turns at the sound of the stones scattering under Sherlock's patent leather shoes, and his look of surprise turns to into a sigh.

"What are you doing here?" John says crossing his arms.

"I just happened to be in the area," Sherlock says, and it is such a blatant lie that John smirks despite himself. Sherlock smiles, taking this as a victory.

"You shouldn't have come," he says softly.

"And miss this lovely view?" Sherlock says approaching John who turns toward him, face hardening, feet placed wide as if ready for a fight.

"Very funny, Now tell me, why are you here?"

"To talk to you."

"About?"

"Why didn't you tell me you were going?"

"One would have to be incredibly thick to miss the fact that I left without a forwarding address. I want to be alone. Go away, Sherlock."

"But I want to talk to you."

"No," John says turning away to walk further down the trail. "Go home."

He strides down the hill at a rapid pace. Sherlock follows much more clumsily, his slick bottomed shoes sliding across the smaller stones as he goes down the hill.

"But John, about the gun. I'm sorry. I should have talked to you first. I apologize."

"Apology accepted," John says without turning. "Now you've done what you came to do. Goodbye."

"But John!"

John turns suddenly causing Sherlock to pull up short as he kicks angrily at the path sending stones skittering up the hill toward Sherlock. "When will you get it in that big head of yours that I don't want to talk to you? Go away! And don't bother me again."

John marches off down the hill at a crushing pace leaving Sherlock behind. He stands there, shocked, wondering where he went wrong. Wondering at what point John started to hate him, because it feels like hate, like rejection. He's run after John before, and he'd been forgiven. What has changed between them?

What hasn't changed between them?

There has been death, and marriage, and murder, and separation, tragedy, and treachery, and even birth. It seems whole lives have passed since that last time he'd begged forgiveness on the chapel path in Baskerville. This time, John hadn't said 'Yes, all right', and let him take his place beside him. This time, he'd kicked stones and barked at him to go away.

It is only now, as he stands abandoned on a mountain trail that Sherlock begins to consider that John might actually not like him anymore. It is a hard thought for him to process. In his mind, John equals friend. Thinking of it any other way doesn't add up. John is forgiving. John is kind. John is his friend. Those statements are true like one and one makes two. And yet….

He's been a different John these last few years, a different man since he'd forgiven Mary. Maybe there is a limit to forgiveness after all and he'd used it all up on her. Now John is more cynical and cruel. His smiles are rare and brief, his insults more cutting, his touches fewer and more rough.

Sherlock looks up to find that John is no longer in sight. He wills his feet to move, but can not make them work. What will it mean for him to turn back, to listen to John's directive and not bother him again? What will life be like without John?

The air is fresh and crisp, green with the scent of heather. The colors rich and bright, unlike the neutral shades of London. Time seems to wheel around him. He can almost see the sun moving across the sky. It is several minutes before he comes back to himself and realizes that the sun is close to setting.

Forward or back. He remembers having that choice before. Last time he had chosen back. This time, he goes forward.

* * *

The sun has long since set by the time he reaches the small stone bothy on the side of the trail. It's half dug into the ground with a wooden roof and small glass windows from which a thin yellow light glows. Sherlock considers walking past, but he's unsure of the way, and the clouds overhead are threatening rain. He risks a knock before opening the door to find John glaring up at him.

"I thought I told you to go home."

"I'm tired, and I need to rest."

"Find another place."

"There is no other place, besides, I'm as welcome here as you are."

"Fine, but stay on your side," John says reaching out to pull his pack closer to him.

Sherlock stiffly walks in to the small building. He has to crouch to pass through the door. This is one place where John's lack of height is an advantage. On each side of the shed there is a long wooden bench. John has his things on one bench, Sherlock sits on the other.

He tries lying down, but the bench is too short, so he wraps his coat around him and props his back against the stone wall stretching out his long legs. The stone is cold against his back, and there is no fireplace. John turns away from him and turns off his lamp sending the hut into darkness. Slowly, his eyes adjust. The light seeps in from the outside through the glass, and he realizes that the moon must be hiding behind the clouds. His legs ache, and he itches, and having John so close and yet so distant ties his stomach up in knots. He thinks that it will be impossible, but soon is fast asleep.

He wakes to find a ray of sunlight resting on his cheek. His back is stiff, and he spends a few moments disoriented before remembering where he is and glancing across to find the other bench empty. He sits up rapidly dislodging a dark green blanket which has been draped across his chest. He holds the warm cloth in his hands. It's John's. He rolls it up, placing it beneath one arm as he pushes open the door to feel the cool air of a Scottish morning.

The view is breathtaking. They are surrounded by rolling hills tinged red-orange by the rising sun. The mist streams around them like a river rolling past a bed of stones making the peaks into islands in a sea of fog. John's back-lit hair glows gold making him the very image of the conductor of light that Sherlock has always believed him to be. He takes a breath.

John is crouching down beside a small fire he has lit inside a metal can. He's heating something in the flames.

Sherlock hesitates, watching him for several minutes before walking over and holding the blanket out to him.

"Thank you," Sherlock says.

John takes the blanket and rolls it up, stuffing it into the top of his bag. "Sherlock, did you seriously come into the wilderness without any gear?"

"I brought water," Sherlock says holding out a plastic water bottle that is three-quarters empty.

John mumbles the word 'idiot' under his breath before offering a metal cup to him.

He accepts it warily, taking a cautious sip before hanging his head back in ecstasy at the taste of a well brewed cup of tea.

"Sorry, there's no milk," John says. "Then again, that's nothing new," he adds with a gentle smirk.

Sherlock doesn't know how to respond to the overwhelming sense of nostalgia which overtakes him.

Sherlock takes another sip before reverently passing the cup back to John who holds it in both hands and drinks, eyes looking up at Sherlock who can't turn away. He smiles briefly and hope kindles in Sherlock's heart. This is his John, the old John. The edges of his eyes turn down and he blinks back tears.

John smiles again before covering the flame with a metal lid. He rises to his feet and says, "If we set out now, we can get to town in time for you to catch the evening bus to Aberdeen, and by tomorrow you will be back home in London."


	7. Chapter 7

John leaves Sherlock beside the bench where the bus is due to stop, and goes alone to the pub to see about a bath and a room. The pub has a horse theme with leather saddles and carved wooden horse heads. They have a room free upstairs, bath at the end of the hall, pay in advance, breakfast included in the price. John tosses his bag on the floor by the bed and digs out his toiletries before going to take a shower.

It's been a long time since he's been out of the city. He's missed the raw justice of the countryside. He rolls his shoulder under the warm water and pokes at his bullet scar. The Afghan plains were even starker than the highland heaths, the sky bare and bright when the bullet had torn through his shoulder knocking him to the ground and into nothingness. He shakes his head to clear out the sound of screams, the sight of blood pooling. He closes his eyes thinking of nothing but the barren desert sands until the water turns cold against his skin, and he steps out of the tub.

He brushes his teeth and slicks back his hair, wrapping his towel around him and covering himself with his robe before stepping out of the bathroom to walk down the hall to his room. He should have expected that it wouldn't be that easy.

"John," Sherlock says standing in the narrow hallway before his door. "I didn't mean to offend you. Please tell me how I can make amends."

"Sherlock, get out of my way."

"John."

"I told you to go home. Now, we don't want to make a scene, do we? Me in my towel and all. What will people say?"

"Only what they've always said," Sherlock replies.

"And they've always been wrong. Now, Sherlock , I told you to leave town. Move out from in front of my door, or God help me, I will move you."

Sherlock stares at John, eyes green like the Aral sea. He reaches out a hand toward him, and John grabs him by the wrist, turning him and pushing him hard up against the door. He presses up against his back, holding his arms firmly in his grip as his other hand reaches around Sherlock and unlocks the door. John squeezes his wrist hard enough to bruise before pushing him aside.

"Go Away!" John says storming into his room, turning, and slamming the door between himself and Sherlock's heartbroken face. He clicks the bolt and leans against the door breathing heavily, listening until he finally hears the sound of those posh shoes padding down the stairs.

Mary stands in the corner of the room. _'That won't be the end of it, John. He's not that easily put off.'_

"I don't care, as long as he doesn't come back tonight. You aren't planning to watch, are you?" John says unwrapping the towel from his waist and laying it flat on the bed, before lifting one knee to rest on top of it while his hand reaches down to cover his crotch."

 _'Why shouldn't I watch'_ , Mary says with a smirk. _'I am your wife aren't I. It's not like it's anything new, and I know you aren't thinking of me.'_

"Shut up!" he says squeezing his eyes shut and listening to the rapid, rhythmic squeaking of the springs so that he can't hear the sound of her high-pitched laughter.

* * *

The next morning he gets his things and sits down to a large English breakfast before setting out for the edge of town to start on the trail again. His goal is a highland bothy with a good view of a loch. He's bringing some coal and a log or two to start the fire, and is pleased when the sky starts to clear just as he reaches the head of the trail. He's barely started on the path, when he sees someone coming up behind him. It's Sherlock in hiking gear without his coat and wearing proper boots.

"What the Hell, Sherlock!" John says. "What are you doing?"

"I thought I'd do this properly, since I'm already here."

"But how could you possibly get all of this stuff? This place doesn't even have a proper grocery."

"It does, however, have phone access. One of Mycroft's minions brought it. He wanted me to tell you _'Although he has gone through the crucible with you, and he does trust you with his life, what kind of man you are is to be determined by your actions.'_ That's all rubbish, really, but he made me promise to say that to you before he'd agree to give me all of this gear on such short notice. Hurry up, or we won't make it to the peak by sunset."

Sherlock walks up the path, as eager as a puppy, and John follows. He's angry at Sherlock for coming, and angry at himself for talking to him. He should have kept quiet, let him see what it feels like to not have someone to talk to. But there he is, smiling away like a kid at Christmas as he strides down the trail, the bastard, the fuckin' beautiful bastard.

Sherlock's legs give him an advantage in length, but he lacks endurance. He's a sprinter. He'll run and leap, and travel great distances at a rapid pace, but then he has to rest, to get back his wind.

John, on the other hand, can go the distance. He sets a rapid pace and keeps at it. Before long, he's left Sherlock behind. He stretches his legs and measures his breath using all of his military training and discipline. He takes a step and then another, enjoying the way he pushes past the pain, enjoying the way that his lungs tug at the air reminding him that he's alive, allowing him to put all his other worries out of his head. He comes up short at the edge of a stream, the water lapping at his boots. And the pain hits him. He doubles over, hands on thighs as he breathes and breathes.

She doesn't haunt him here, in the wilderness. Mary never was one for the countryside. A city girl she was although she never bothered to say where she was born.

The road goes through the stream. Tire tracks go right up to the water and come out the other side. Seasonal then. Once he gets his breath, he walks a bit off the path to where some rocks make it capable for him to leap across. When he reaches the other side, he starts up the hill at a more natural pace, still feeling the tug in his thighs. Oh, he will feel the burn tonight.

As he approaches the top, the gravel road begins to zigzag up the side of the mountain. At the edge of a wide turn, he sees, Sherlock catching up to him. He probably didn't have any trouble fording that stream, just stretched out his impossibly long legs, the wanker.

John picks up his pace only to stop at the edge of a rocky deer path that climbs up the hill at a steep angle cutting maybe a half-hour off the time it would take to reach the top. He looks back once to see that Sherlock is not in sight, and then he starts up the deer trail walking carefully and grabbing at the stony ground to steady himself when it gets too steep. He stops at a cluster of rocks looking for passage up to the shelf which forms the base of the higher roadway. He looks in the shadows for snakes before pulling himself up onto a rocky ledge. He turns then, looking out to see the countryside spread before him. In the distance, he can see the ridge of trees near the stream where he had hopped across the flat stones that forded the water. He can see the slow winding path that brought him here. He can also see Sherlock slowly trudging up toward him. Sherlock looks up at him and stops.

John remembers when he was the one watching Sherlock scramble over rocks so long ago: His coat, the sky, Henry knight, the lovely inn, his stupid cheekbones, the rooftop at Barts, his bloody face, the crushing pain.

John turns away and reaches up to the next ledge only to have the rock crumble under his feet.

He falls.


	8. Chapter 8

He falls, ankle bashing against the hard ground as he twists, turning himself on the rolling rocks until he's sliding down the hill. He spreads out his arms, lays back, and slowly comes to a stop, a host of rocks continuing on down the hill to spray out across the gravel roadway below.

John takes a deep breath, and lays back, his pack uncomfortably beneath him. He looks up into the sky to watch the clouds passing overhead, glad for a moment that he's no longer falling, and relieved that he hasn't broken his neck. He's thrown up a cloud of dust. White chalk falls, coating his body. He lies still, closing his eyes, and listening to the sound of his racing heartbeat. After a moment, he tests the status of his limbs, lifting each one carefully. His right ankle twisted in the fall. Whether a sprain or a strain he can't tell yet. He wonders if he can stand on it. He won't be able to tell until he reaches steady ground.

Suddenly, he hears the sound of running feet. He lifts his head to see Sherlock rushing up the road toward him. He starts up the hill, but his pack hinders him, so he drops it carelessly on the road, before scrambling on hands and knees up the hill toward him.

"John! John!" he screams climbing up beside him and touching his cheek and his forehead before digging his hands into the back of his neck to check for breaks.

"John! Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I'm fine, Sherlock. Help me sit up."

Sherlock reaches his hands behind John's back and helps him sit. He slides a little, and Sherlock leans across him, planting an arm on the other side to keep him from falling further.

"Are you all right, John?"

"It's my ankle. Help me up, we need to get down to the road."

Sherlock takes his arm and places it over his shoulder as he backs down the hill, legs spread wide to stop him if he slides. John leans on him as he comes to his feet, wincing as he tries to put weight on his leg and finding that it won't hold any. His other foot slides a bit, and he hops and slides his way down the hill, Sherlock keeping him steady, until they stand together on the roadway once more.

John sits down and starts to unlace his shoe, only to think better of it when he feels the flesh around his ankle starting to swell. "Damn!" he says. "If I take the shoe off, I'll never get it back on again. I need to wrap it."

"Wait!" Sherlock says rushing over to his fallen pack, digging in it, and returning with a frankly enormous First Aid kit. He opens it and pulls out a roll of bandage wrap.

"How is it that you have all that in your pack, Sherlock? I only packed elastoplasts and Paracetamol."

"But I didn't pack it, John. Mycroft did."

"That explains it. Expect him to plan for the worst. Pass it over."

John wraps his ankle tightly, stuffing the bandage inside his shoe and lacing it up again, before rising to his feet with Sherlock's help. He takes a pain killer and repacks the kit before letting Sherlock put it back in his pack.

"We should go back to town," Sherlock says. "You need to get that ankle seen too."

"No, let's keep going. I'm never going to make it over that stream with this ankle. The road here is wide and level, and I think it won't take us more than two hours to make it there."

"I don't know, John. Maybe we should wait for help."

"I didn't see anyone else coming this way. It's not the season. And If we wait, it will swell so much that I'll need to take off the shoe, and then I won't be going anywhere. We need to get to shelter soon."

Sherlock nods. He slings his pack over one shoulder, placing his arm around John as they hop slowly up the trail. It takes them much longer than they expected. The day is darkening, and the white stones of the road are brighter than the sky when they reach the welcome door of the mountain bothy under a host of dark low-hanging clouds. The place is clean, cozy with stone walls on the outside and wooden ones on the inside. The fireplace is small with a white stone hearth. They put down their packs, and Sherlock takes the log out of John's and places it in the fireplace before going outside to search for kindling.

With his ankle hurt he is trapped. He won't be able to escape, not from Sherlock, not from himself. John sits on the floor, and reaches for his pack. He unrolls his bedroll beside the fireplace and pulls himself onto it. Slowly, carefully he unlaces his shoe, and unwraps the bandage. The ankle is swelling fast. He takes off the shoe, wincing at the pain, and then feels around the joint. Inside the close hut, the darkness falls.

 _'Well that was pretty stupid,'_ Mary says. _'Some shortcut.'_

John sighs. "Well that's just one more thing in my life that I've happened to cock up."

_Mary leans against the far wall of the cabin. She crosses her legs. 'Why are you running from Sherlock?.'_

"I didn't run from him. He followed me here."

_'Looked like running to me. What are you afraid of?'_

"I'm not afraid. I'm tired, tired of dealing with Holmes bullshit. I wanted to be alone."

_'Strange turn of events, really. You running from a Holmes. You seem quite attracted to them.'_

"I didn't know she was a Holmes. It was all a trick. You know that, Mary. All the Holmeses ever do is trick me and toy with my emotions."

 _'She wasn't the first Holmes you wanted to leave me for._ _I remember a time when you kept your shirts folded, so that if you had to go back to Baker Street you'd be ready at a moment's notice. How long had we been married, a month? You were already planning to leave me then. Even before you knew who I really was.'_

John bows his head. He takes the bandage out and begins to wrap his foot. "Don't you have something better to do, Mary, other than try to make me feel even more guilty than I already am?"

_'No, not really. You must know that I would have killed him if you'd left me. I told you so in the empty houses. I would do anything to keep you, John.'_

'Then why did you leave? I'm not even talking about your death. I almost understand that, but you drugged Sherlock and kitted off to deal with your problems on your own. If I hadn't put that tracking device on the USB stick…."

_'Yeah, way to trust your wife.'_

"Trust works both ways. I am not a child. I'm a soldier and a damn good doctor. I am not without talent, but you just left me behind. You always leave me behind, like I'm the princess in some story unable to take care of myself. Well I can take care of myself just fine."

_'John, are you sure that you're talking to the right person? Isn't there someone else you want to tell this to?'_

"I don't want to talk to Sherlock."

_'Why not? Did you see how concerned he was for you? He would have thrown himself off that mountain if it would have helped you.'_

"He shouldn't be helping me. I'm a grown man. I should take care of myself."

_'No man is an island.'_

"Well, I should be! I have to be! I'm a single father now, thanks to you."

_'But John, you need help, and you can trust him. He's a good man.'_

"You sound just like him. Both of you telling me who I ought to trust. If you think that Sherlock is such a good man, then perhaps you should have married him!"

 

The door opens and Sherlock enters. He raises his eyebrows. "Are you all right, John?"

"Fine," John says nervously pulling his pack toward him as he searches through it.

Sherlock places a stack of wood and twigs down on the floor beside the fireplace and then turns on his knees toward John who is pulling things out of his bag and stacking them on the floor beside him.

"What are you looking for?" Sherlock asks.

"I just need something to elevate this ankle."

"Oh, I'll get…."

"No, Sherlock! This is something that I can do for myself. You see to the fire."

"All right." Sherlock says leaning back at the force of his refusal. He turns back and begins sorting through the wood."

_'Why don't you use one of your shirts, John. They're already folded after all.'_

Sherlock puts the tinder in the fireplace and stacks the logs that he's found beside it. He lights the fire and blows on it to get it to start, feeding it with sticks until the fire grows. John watches, the way his long fingers bend the bark into loops as he stuffs it under the log, leaving space for air to help the fire to burn. His lips rounding as he blows on the sparks to get them to light. Sherlock does it carefully, craftily, making it an art form like so many other thinks he does.

"You're good at that," John admits despite himself.

Sherlock looks over his shoulder at him, his pupils alight with the reflection of the burning sparks.

"Fires are just chemistry, John. Besides, I've always liked fires and explosions. I was quite the menace as a child, or so I imagine. I'm not completely sure of everything from that time. I'm still coming to terms with the repressed memories."

"You sound like Ella."

Sherlock chuckles, "Well, I have been seeing a lot of her lately."

"Oh?" John says. "Professionally or personally."

"John, I've told you about sentiment."

"Don't give me that Sherlock. You are one of the most sentimental persons that I know."

Sherlock turns back to the fire to hide his smile.

It must have been Ella who told him that he might go after Mycroft with a gun. Ella who told Sherlock that he was not sane.

_'You aren't sane, John. Sane people don't see hallucinations of their dead wives.'_

"But I'm not..."

"What?" Sherlock asks looking up from the flames.

"Nothing," John says.

The fire is burning strongly now, and Sherlock rises to his feet brushing off the front of his trousers as he stands. "It looks like rain. I'd like to get some firewood under the eaves of the house before it comes down."

"Yes, good. You do that." John says, watching as he walks through the door with only one glance back, eyebrow raised as in question.

The door shuts, and Mary says, _'You should talk to him, John. Get some things off of your chest. You've finally got him alone. How many times have you tried to get him alone and failed? Remember that time on New years when you bought a bottle of his favorite wine so that you could finally talk about how you felt, only for Irene to text and take his mind completely off of you.'_

"I told you never to mention that name."

_'He texted her back then, didn't he? Ruined your moment. You were going to tell him about your girlfriends, how you didn't remember them either. You were going to tell him how fulfilling you found your life with him. How happy you were. How you wanted more.'_

"That's enough."

_'And that wasn't the last time. Do you remember when you made the reservations for the room at Baskerville, and you asked for a single bed, subtle.'_

"Shut it! Shut Up! That was a long time ago, before Rosie, before I met you, before he fell... There's no use talking about the past. Things are different now. I'm different now, and dreaming about the way that it was before isn't going to change anything."

_'But, you think running off to the mountains in Scotland is going to solve your problems?'_

"Well, at least this time, I'm the one that's leaving. At least this time, I'm not the one being left behind!"

 

The door opens, and Sherlock enters. "John, I heard yelling, are you okay?"

"It was nothing, Sherlock. I'm fine. I feel fine. I think that I'll take another paracetamol and go to sleep if it's okay with you."

"Yes, of course."

"Goodnight, Sherlock." John says taking the pill dry and then draping a blanket over himself as he lies down on his side, foot elevated on a wadded up pair of trousers."

Sherlock checks the fire and then crawls over to the other side of the room. He props himself up against the wall and looks over at John. He continues to watch him long after John falls asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

The gentle patter of rain on the rooftop, the light crackle of the low burning fire, the absence of the sounds of the city, and the sight of John's sleeping face make the moment seem almost unreal to Sherlock. He had dreamed of such things. Dreamed of being beside John again. Now he's finally with him, but John doesn't want him here.

He looks serene in sleep. The firelight dances across his face making soft the features that have lately been so harsh and angry. The creases in his forehead are smooth, and Sherlock thinks that he can catch the outline of the boy he once was, boisterous and adventurous no doubt. He would have liked to have known him then.

He'd lost his friend Victor when he was a child, and that had shaped his ideas of trust and friends ever since. Victor, even now that his memories are back, the thoughts fresh in his mind, he's more of an emotion than a person. His image of Victor is a child, but his memory of him is as another self, a counterpart who had responded to his lead, playing pirates with him and running through the woods. It is as if he left his own humanity back in that well, drowning it along with his memory of Victor.

Ella was right. There is a part of his view of John that is simply his desire to have Victor back again. The part of him that needs John to make him human. That part is pure emotion. John is like he'd imagined an adult Victor to be, like he had wanted himself to be, brave, loyal, and strong. John had said that Mary imagined him to be someone that he was not, and he had tried to live up to her image of him. Had John been trying to live up to the image that Sherlock had of Victor? Had Sherlock ever seen the real John at all?

He looks at the man. He is always surprised at how small he is physically. In Sherlock's mind, John is not small. He towers over him in his strength, his humor, his power, even his anger. John is a giant. But this man, curled up on the wooden floor, he is small, and tired. Maybe now he will be able to talk to him and ask him where things went wrong. There are so many possible answers to that question, so many ways that John and he have been pulled apart, that he doesn't know what to do to fix the breach. He'll do anything, anything to get back the John who once stood beside him at crime scenes, and sat for countless hours chatting in front of the fireplace. That John had almost graduated into myth in his mind. A strong, loyal protector who would never fail him. No wonder John felt tired. They had all expected so much of him.

Maybe here Sherlock can finally tell him how much he's changed his life. How like a rudderless boat he'd been, sailing around with no purpose before John had set him on a steady course. John had made him want to be a better person as well, and despite the pain of the journey, Sherlock feels that he is a better man now than he had been, a more understanding man. Does that mean that he will always be in this much pain? Exchanging the vague loneliness he once had for certain knowledge that the absence he feels in his heart is caused not by bones in a well, but by an empty chair. Maybe now that they are alone in this peaceful rain-drenched cabin without crying babies, or torturing sisters, or spying brothers, maybe now he can finally ask why John doesn't want to be with him any more.

He can change. He can become more like what John wants him to be. If John wants a friend to call 'mate', he can be a mate. If John wants a work colleague, he can be that too, but once they were best friends. Somehow they'd lost that, and he doesn't know why.

Victor had walked away from him never to return, and maybe that's why it's so hard for him to let John move on to a life without him. He'd thought it was marriage that pulled John away, but Mary is gone. Why did she save his life? He might finally have to admit that he had never understood Mary at all. Women have never been his area, but Mary defies all logic. It was John who he depended on to explain these things. John who talks to his dead wife still. He must love her very much to not be able to let her go. Sherlock had talked to John while he was away. He had heard his voice constantly in his mind, but the real John doesn't say what the John in his mind says. He is always surprising.

John had always been surprising from the first moment he met him. And when he'd shot the cabbie, Sherlock couldn't have been more shocked. John was the first person, since Victor that Sherlock had wanted to call him, friend. They had been inseparable, before the fall.

John fidgets in his sleep. He stretches out his arm across the floor. Sherlock reaches toward him placing his hand near John's. He stretches his finger toward John's hand, but he does not touch him.

Ella thinks that it was the loss of Victor that made him want to stay with John. In truth, it doesn't matter what led him to care for John. He does now, and he wants to help the precious man curled on the floor below him. He wants him to be whole and well, and he will do what he must do to make that happen, because John's happiness means more to him than his own life.


	10. Chapter 10

Demon harpies rip through his skin, clawing at his chest. They are half-bird, half-women. One has the face of Eurus Holmes, the mysterious E who he met on a bus. Another has the face of Irene Adler, beautiful with her cherry red lips and her sharp, sharp, claws. The last has Mary's face. She claws open his chest pulling out his heart and taking a bite. He turns his head to the side to avoid watching her eat it, and he sees Sherlock. Sherlock is chained to a rock just as he is. His black shirt flutters open exposing his chest and the small bullet wound there. The harpies stop their screeching and look up from John's torn flesh. As one, they turn their bloody faces toward Sherlock. John screams, "No!"

"John, John. It's all right. It's a dream. You just had a bad dream."

"Sherlock? Sherlock, is that you?" John opens his eyes to see Sherlock's face in front of him. He blinks and looks around. "Where are we?"

"On the mountain, in Scotland, remember? You fell."

John takes a breath. "Oh yes, I remember. What time is it?"

"Half-three."

John leans forward, his head falling against Sherlock's chest. He turns his head and listens to his heart beating. It beats faster. Sherlock has one arm around him. His other hand is pressing firmly against John's leg to prevent him from jostling his ankle which is throbbing with pain. He is clutching on to Sherlock, holding his arms in a death grip. His fingernails are digging into Sherlock's flesh even through his shirt.

_I'm hurting him._

He pulls away, looking up to see Sherlock open-mouthed staring down at him with eyes round like the moon, bright as the morning sky. John lowers his eyes, reaching down to rub at his leg.

Sherlock removes his hand from John's leg, and scoots away from him as if he's been kicked.

_It's not like I haven't kicked him before, kicked him when he was down. God, I'm a monster._

"I need a drink," John says.

"I'll get you one."

John reaches down to see the swollen ankle bulging out past the edge of the bandage. He winces as he pulls the leg toward him, then unwraps it.

Sherlock thrusts a bottle in his face, and he takes a sip frowning. "What is this?"

"Water."

"I said that I need a drink. Pass me my pack."

Sherlock pushes it closer and john digs around before pulling out a metal flask. He takes a sip and sighs as the alcohol burns his throat. Then he pours some onto his hand and sprinkles it on his swollen ankle, spreading it around with his fingers in large circles to cool the reddened skin.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asks watching with sharp, attentive eyes.

"Just something my mother used to do when she had aches. She'd come back from work with pains in her feet or knees and she'd do this. She said it cooled it."

"Ah, the rapid evaporative properties of ethanol aiding in the cooling of said flesh, as well as providing a minor irritant that would increase circulation in the area."

"Yeah, I guess. She just said it made it feel better. The drinking also helped." John takes another sip from the flask.

"Your mother was an alcoholic." He says it like a statement, but he looks at him like it's a question. I suppose it is.

"Yeah, she was." he screws the bottle closed before placing it into his breast pocket.

"You never talk of her."

"She died when I was in college of cancer."

"I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago."

"I'm still sorry."

John looks down at his hands. "Thank you."

"And your father? Is he still alive?"

"Don't know, don't care. He left us, a week before my ninth birthday. My mother raised me and Harry. She worked two jobs, most of that time, packing things in a factory and waitressing nights and weekends."

"That must have been hard for you."

"We got by."

"Is that why you chose to be a doctor, to fix your mother's cancer?"

"No, well maybe in part. If I wanted to fix my mother I should have become a psychiatrist. Mum had all kinds of problems." John smiles. "But I loved her, I loved her very much."

"And did you love, Mary?"

John frowns. He looks up at Sherlock. "What's going on? Why the interrogation?"

"It's not an interrogation it's just… I realized that we never talk about you. We talk about work and Rosie, and crimes and unimportant things, but I never really ask about you. I don't really know anything about your past."

"I figured you'd have deduced it all by now."

"I have, but I've never asked."

John bows his head looking at his wedding ring. He remembers Mary's smiling face on their wedding day, then her look as she pointed a gun at him in the empty house. "Yeah, I loved her. But I didn't trust her."

"Do you trust me?"

John remembers Sherlock standing on the ledge above Saint Barts and before that in the flat, the lamplight shining harshly on his face.

_'I know you're for real.'_

_'One hundred percent?'_

He remembers the sound of the gun shot, and Magnussen falling to the ground while the helicopter flies overhead, and the airport…

_'Sherlock is a girl's name.'_

"I trust you for some things."

"What things?"

John chuckles. "You vain git, you can't even stand to talk about me for two minutes before it comes back to you, can you?"

Sherlock raises his hands, "Sorry, sorry, you're right. I'm sorry. So, tell me about yourself."

"Nothing to tell. I was never that interesting."

Sherlock laughs. "How can you possibly say that, John? You are the most interesting man I know."

John looks up to see if he's joking, Sherlock's face is open, sincere. Always so sincere.

_Why am I doing this? Why am I listening to Sherlock again?_

John lays back on the bed roll, his knee sticking up to spare his ankle.

"John, are you okay?"

"Fine."

"I shouldn't have kept you awake. You need your rest."

"Yes I do." John looks up at the ceiling. Wooden beams hold up the roof. The fire crackles. "What about you, Sherlock. Aren't you going to sleep?"

"No."

John closes his eyes and smiles. "You're not a robot, Sherlock, sleep."

Sherlock spreads out a blanket beside the fire and lays down on it. John turns his head to see his eyes are still open. He sighs. "You're not even trying to sleep."

"I can sleep later. I don't want to miss anything."

John props himself up on his elbows and looks at Sherlock. "There is nothing to miss? Nothing's going to happen here. It's hours before sunrise. You're not on a case, and I'm certainly not going anywhere."

"But you will go, John. That's why I won't sleep now."

John sits up. He takes a moment to adjust his leg before facing Sherlock. "Alright, we're here. It doesn't look like I'm getting back to sleep, and you aren't planning to sleep, so let's talk. So, Sherlock, why are you here? What exactly were you hoping to accomplish by following me up this mountain."

Sherlock pulls himself up and sits cross-legged. "I wanted to see you, John."

"I'm here. You can see me. Now what?"

"I wanted to ask you a question."

"What question? Did I love Mary? What kind of a question is that to ask a man who recently lost his wife?"

"I wanted to ask why you're leaving London."

"Who told you that I was leaving London."

Sherlock looks at him. He looks back and sees the certainty of deduction in his eyes. "I haven't made firm plans. I've just been looking, but … I thought, that with Mary gone, it was a good opportunity to move. Besides, someone might have known where she lived. She does have enemies. I wanted a fresh start. I know it will be hard at first..."

"You weren't going to tell me, were you?"

John frowns. "The last time I saw you, you had Greg pull a gun on me."

"You know why I did that."

"Yes, you thought I was crazy."

"Are you?"

John looks at the corner of the room. Mary is there, leaning against the wall. "Maybe," he says.

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to do what I always do. Find a way to cope. Carry on living."

"I want to help."

John looks at him and his brow furrows deeply. "I don't think that I want your help."

"Why not?"

John remembers Sherlock falling from the roof.

"I don't need your help. I can take care of Rosie alone."

"You obviously can't. You sent her away. Were you afraid that you'd hurt her? That's what Ella thinks."

"Why is Ella suddenly someone you listen to. You used to say that she was an idiot."

"Well, were you afraid?"

"I'd never hurt Rosie, not consciously. I'm just not ready to take the responsibility just yet. I need to get my head on straight."

"You can move in with me. I'll watch her."

"You mean between chasing murderers and jumping out of windows. Carry her on your back to crime scenes, will you?"

"Why not? You did."

"I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have risked her. Rosie deserves a happy childhood, and a stable family."

"To make up for your childhood, because of your father's absence and your mother's alcoholism."

"Can you just stop deducing me!"

"I deduce because you won't tell me anything. You never do."

"Then shut up and listen!" John's voice is loud in the small cabin. He looks up to see Mary shaking her head at him. He pulls out the flask and takes a drink. He glares at Sherlock lest he cast a disapproving eye.

"I told you my father left when I was eight. He didn't divorce her, he just left. No money, no forwarding address, he was just...gone. It was hard for her being a single mum, and a waitress never gets any respect. She was young, but she looked older than she was. She was forty three when she died. Taking care of us, killed her. When I was sixteen my dad came back. Harry had gone on this quest to find him without telling any of us. She had been going out a lot, and we just thought that she'd found a new girlfriend that she thought Mum wouldn't approve of. Then one day, she brought him home with her. He just walked in the front door as if he'd never left. Mom was shocked."

John takes another sip from the flask. Sherlock watches silently as John seals it and puts it back into his pocket.

"He said, he was sorry. He said that he had been in a bad place and didn't think that he could be a good father. He thought that we would all be better off without him. Now he wanted to make amends. He wanted to know his son and his daughter. He wanted a place in our lives."

"And what did you say, John?"

"I told him no! I told him to get out of my house and never come back! He'd had his chance, and he'd missed it. There were so many times we needed his help, so many times we had hoped for someone to be there for us, and he hadn't been there. We needed him, and he wasn't there. Then he comes back when I'm almost grown to say that he wants me in his life? Well I don't want him. I don't need him. We were getting by without him, and we would continue to get by without his help!" John's face is flushed and he's angry. He's bumped his ankle and it's throbbing again. He takes deep breaths to calm down before continuing.

"Mary shot you, and she betrayed me, but she wanted that child. She told me that she wanted Rosie to have the kind of life she didn't have, and I believed her. I stayed, because Rosie deserved two parents who loved her. But Mary betrayed me again, rushing off on her world tour without me. I expected it, but I'd hoped that she wouldn't do it. I'd hoped that she wouldn't leave without a word. I'm up here, Sherlock, to put myself back together because I'm not okay. I'm not okay! I'm really, really not."

Suddenly it all crashes down on John, the guilt, and the self-hate, and the pain. He bends over covering his face so that Sherlock won't see him crying. Arms wrap around him then. A hand caresses his neck, and he remembers feeling this way before. He remembers feeling safe, safe in Sherlock's arms.

"John," Sherlock says. "I'm here. I'll be here for you and Rosie whenever you need me. I promise. I'd die before I let anything or anyone hurt you."

John breathes in sharply as anger coils in his abdomen. He slaps Sherlock's arms away from him and rises to his feet despite the pain.

"Get out!"

"John. What is it? What did I say?"

"I said get out of here! I don't want you here. I don't ever want to be in your presence again."

"John."

"Don't think just because I'm injured that I can't beat you to a pulp." John balls his hands into fists and leans back against the cabin wall bracing himself to spring forward. Sherlock turns and goes to the door, then he stops and turns back to face John.

"I told you to go."

"No."

"I'll kill you."

"I don't care. If I learned anything from Eurus, it's never to give up on someone that you care about. Tell me why you are so angry." Sherlock walks across the room until he is standing in front of John.

"Leave me alone!"

"No."

John launches himself at Sherlock and grabs his neck. Sherlock pries his hand off only to reel at a blow to the face that sends him to the floor. John falls down on top of him and grabs his arm pulling it up behind his back. Sherlock kicks his ankle and he cries in pain as Sherlock crawls away from him.

"Ow! That hurt, you bloody cock!" John says pulling himself up to a sitting position as he rubs at his ankle.

"Yes. Now tell me what's wrong. What did I do? What did I say? You were crying a moment ago, and then you just... exploded. What did I say?"

John smiles. It isn't a good smile. "You said you'd die for me. That you'd die for me and Rosie."

"So it's because I couldn't save Mary. You're angry because I vowed to protect the three of you, and I let Mary die?"

"You don't get it. You don't have any idea of what it's been like for me these last few years. What it was like after you left, and yes, I did notice that you never bothered to ask me. Ever since I've known you, Sherlock, you've been ready to die ever since that first night with the cabbie and that stupid game with the pill, and later on with the drugs. You came to me, hoping to win me back by almost getting yourself strangled to death in a hospital!

"I've been to war, Sherlock. I've seen plenty of people give up their lives for all kinds of causes, and you know what happens after they're gone? Someone else has to keep living. Someone else has to carry on.

"I'm a father now, and I have a child to take care of, and I know what it's like to have a parent that leaves you behind. It means never having someone there to teach you how to play ball. It means no one showing up on Parent's day, and never going on vacation because your parent has to work all the time to support you. Well, I don't want that kind of life for my Rosie, so I am not going to rush off and get myself killed. I am not going to throw myself in front of a bullet like Mary did. I don't have the luxury to die.

"So perhaps now you'll understand why I'm not tickled pink when you tell me about the money you want to give my daughter in your will. It doesn't please me that your first thoughts when you think of us is of your death. If that's the gift you plan to give my daughter, then I don't want it. She's going to have a hard enough time without her mother. Better that she never know you than to learn to love you, and have you leave us behind, again.

"Dying for someone is easy, Sherlock. The hard part is living for someone, every day, even through the pain and the fear. It's being there for someone when you know you aren't perfect, and you know that others might be able to do these things better, but they won't, so you have to do the best that you can. It's knowing that somebody needs you and loves you, and resolving that you will be there for them no matter what.

"When we were in the prison, you pointed that gun at your own head. You are always so willing to go first. Well, I've had enough of that. I won't take it anymore! If all you can give me is your heroic death, then go do it elsewhere. I don't want it. I don't need it. Ever since I've known you, you've been ready to die. Call me when you're ready to live."

Sherlock looks at John with eyes filled with hope. "John I…I don't want to die."

"All right, but are you ready to live... for me? Are you ready to be there for Rosie when she graduates from college? Will you hold her grandchildren in your arms? Will you loan her money when she needs to get a new flat, or get married, or buy a space ship, or God knows what challenges she's going to have in the future, because I plan to be there, and if you don't, then I don't want you anywhere near her."

"John, I want to live. I want to honor my vow and be there for Rosie… and for you."

"For the rest of your life? A life that had better not be shorter than mine."

"I can't promise that I will outlive you, John. But I can try. I want to… I plan to. If you'll have me."

"Do you mean it, Sherlock. I don't want this to be another one of your tricks. No leaving me behind for my own good, no doing or saying stupid things to get yourself killed, no playing footsies with serial killers for a laugh."

"John, I promise. If you let me in your life. If you come back home and let me stay with you, I won't be going anywhere."

"Honestly?"

"Honestly."

"Good. Now come over here and help me up, because my ankle is killing me, and I really have to go outside to piss."

Sherlock cracks a smile. He walks forward and puts an arm around John, lifting him to his feet. They hobble toward the door and go outside.

John puts a hand on the stone walls of the building and hops around the corner discreetly watering the wall before coming back and letting Sherlock help him to the door.

They pause, arms locked together, looking up as the first rays of dawn begin to spill over the horizon coloring the hills with a rainbow of colors that reflect in the silent loch. It's the start of a new day, and a new chapter in both of their lives.


	11. Chapter 11

"Sherlock, where's John?"

"He'll be here in a moment, Ella. Bit of a delay with the babysitter. He told me to go ahead and get started."

"I see, You look well."

"I am."

"And how are you feeling?"

"Good, very good."

"Wonderful, please have a seat."

Sherlock moves toward the chairs. There are three of them. Two on one side and one on the other. He chooses the one closest to the windows. Ella sits across from him.

"So, couple's counseling. It's a big step."

"It's a requirement for the adoption."

"Even so, you and John raising a child together. You've both come such a long way since the first time I met you. I'm proud of you. I really am."

Sherlock looks around awkwardly for a minute, and then says, "Um...thank you?"

"You're welcome. So how is your homelife? Are all of you living together in your flat at Baker street?"

"No, we're in John's flat for the time being. It's babyproofed. We plan to stay there at least until the renovations are done on 221C. We're converting the downstairs room into a doctor's office so that John can run his practice out of the flat. "

"And you? What have you been working on?"

"Cold cases mostly. We're cleaning out the files in Scotland Yard. Some of the problems have been very challenging. It's especially difficult finding new clues after all this time. And I also take private cases, although I have to farm out the more dangerous ones to the yard."

"And how do you feel about that?"

"Surprisingly okay. I've been stabbed, strangled, and shot. My body isn't as resilient as it used to be, but Rosie keeps me busy. She's walking now. No, she's running. She never walks. She went from crawling to running without an intermediate step. She is quite a handful, but I wouldn't have it any other way."

At the sound of a voice in the foyer, Sherlock jumps to his feet. He turns toward the door and buttons his jacket, brushing lint off his trousers as he watches it open. John enters. He's still wearing his black leather jacket, having not stopped to hang it up. He brushes back his hair with his left hand and steps forward holding out his right to Ella.

"Sorry I'm late. Babysitter got caught in traffic," he says leaning over Ella's chair as she gently shakes his hand. "How far have you got?"

"Just pleasantries. Have a seat."

John turns, and Sherlock's smile widens. John looks up at Sherlock and they spend a moment simply grinning at each other.

"Hi, Sherlock," John says as he stares into the blue brilliance of Sherlock's smiling eyes.

John is smiling at him, and Sherlock can't believe his luck. His grin gets even wider as he says, "Hello, John."


End file.
